The Duke and The Serpent
by comradeda
Summary: A backstory for Duke Sliscus. Unofficial, and will most likely be changed once official fluff comes into play. However, I explore a bunch of fairy tale elements, as well as the Incubi as a Cult of Khaine.
1. Prologue

_"Child, you must be warned about them."_

_"Them?"_

_"Them. They call themselves the In-. Excuse me, Eladrith Ynneas. Never ever trust them bastards."_

_"Are they like the Eldar?"_

_"Physically, they are Eldar. Fey folk, ancient empires and all that."_

_"We traded with some of them, didn't we?"_

_"Yeah, you liked them. They were greater once, and more powerful. They don't live in jungles and ruins, but on vast cities of shimmering glass and bone that float through space. We met their diplomats on the ruins of their civilisation."_

_"There are bad ones, presumably."_

_"Yes, yes. There are bad eggs in every basket. But these are something else."_

_"Those kroot are savage. They apparently eat you after a battle to gain your strength."_

_"Hush. Whatever disaster they led unto themselves made them insane and bloodthirsty. Those dark tales parents tell their children... Remember those fuedals we sold a bunch of guns to? They had this story about a ring of fairies that would steal you if you were bad."_

_"It seemed rather silly, honestly."_

_"Well, many cultures have them. But those tales always have some monster that will drag you away when you're not looking. Those monsters are the Ynneas."_

_"They caused the stories?"_

_"Well, it's more likely that they are preying on people's anxieties and fears, which often take root in the very young. It serves their purposes."_

_"Purposes?"_

_"Whatever happened to them meant that they no longer live or die like the rest of us. Instead, they are fueled by pain, specifically that of other people. Mind, body, and soul, they are dedicated to inflicting as much misery and suffering on the galaxy. Beyond that, who knows?"_

_"It doesn't sound the worst ever. Some aliens want to eat everything."_

_"You're not thinking far enough ahead. Death is preferable to some things. You will crave death after a certain point. I craved death."_

_"What? You were taken?"_

_"A long time ago now, but I was different then. Physically and mentally primed to lead my life, until they grabbed me. I thought they'd sell me or kill me or use me for one of their bastard schemes. But they didn't. They delighted in hurting me, letting me go occasionally only to take me again."_

_"How did you escape?"_

_"I think they were attacked by another group of them. They fight a lot. Where I was, there was an almost constant battle. Months and months turned into years. They have a way of getting into your head. Yeah, you hate them. But you wind up hating yourself too. For being weak, pathetic, for being inferior. I don't even know anymore. But your mind rages to incandescence as your imperfect body fails."_

_"That's... Terrible."_

_"Well, yes. They feed off your self-hate too. It's not just the physical pain, but for the mental suffering they can inflict. After I had gotten away, I had to be tied down. I kept attacking myself and screaming."_

_"Is that how you lost your eyes?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Where did they take you?"_

_"To their fairy realm. To Commorragh."_


	2. Shadows and Mirrors

The gallery was silent. In spite of the oppressive heat, four figures stood motionless on plinths in the corners of the room. They had been there for fifteen hours. Their pose was relaxed against the blades and curves of their armour. It was more ritualistic than practical, with horns affixed to the helmet. That wasn't to say it wasn't high quality armour. Any movement would glide plates and joints about silently. The only noise would be the fluttering of the red robes worn underneath the armour.

A pendant hung off a pauldron on a bronze chain. Outwardly, it was another bauble to signify status used in many warrior cultures. Close observation would reveal movement, as though something was trapped inside trying to get out, weakened by centuries of abuse. The creation of the pendant, known as a Tormentor, is similarly violent and destructive. The meaning of the symbol had been forgotten by most, but the ritual remained. The cult of Khaine liked to keep things mysterious, further muddying history.

Finer details on the armour were washed out by the greenish haze that came from nowhere in particular. This left the gallery somewhat murky, and larger objects cast blurry shadows around them. The pitch black eyes of the Incubi pierced this darkness perfectly, capable of spotting interlopers with contemptuous ease.

This was precisely what Travaelith Sliscus was expecting. Everything had been explained to him when he due to take a visiting trader on a tour. Sliscus had a dual role as a bodyguard and a guide to the premises. He couldn't remember who the trader had been, or even what he had sold. Presumably he was important to receive such treatment, but all Sliscus could remember was what this room looked like and who guarded it. A lifetime of living in Commorragh left him automatically disseminating useful information and ignoring any excess.

In this particular case, it was unlikely that not remembering the trader would impact him negatively. Life was cheap in Commorragh, and death almost as, but the galaxy was a very large place and stranger things had happened.

He had used a modified clone field to create flat images with depth, allowing him to hide behind them, invisible to the outside world. However, the field only extended so far, so parts of his shadow could still be seen. Well, in a sense of the word. Dark Eldar had incredible eyes, but that strength could be turned to weakness easily enough, and the thematic but otherwise poor light of the gallery only helped.

The clone field had a rudimentary AI that pinpointed eyes and created a unique hologram for each eye, a two dimensional illusion with depth. Its hackneyed execution limited it to less than a dozen pairs of eyes before it broke down, but it was certainly enough for the elite guards, who were otherwise few in number. Sliscus shuffled carefully, even though there was little to no debris or particulate matter anywhere. All Eldar had famously keen senses, their more paranoid sub-species more so. The constant din of distant machinery and weapons fire also helped drown out any sounds Sliscus may have made.

Still, nothing was particularly rushing him, and there was always risk of unexpected pitfalls no matter how well planned an operation is; especially true for lone operatives. Even a zealot like Aenith Rex could devise creative traps or simply brutal and hard to spot ones. Thus far, Aenith seemed to be relying on the threat of his position to keep intruders away. Traps were normal security, but objects could be hidden in all manner of esoteric ways.

A prominent piece stood on a plinth. As it was a rather large stone, it stood out from the obsidian statues of enemies and their various 'secret weapons' that had all been bested in one fashion or another. Archaic runes ran across the surface of the stone, clearly an ancient dialect of . Sliscus had been taught about the Eldar empire and its fall, as part of an education on the history, and thus motivations, of the wider political battleground of Commorragh. The runes appeared older than that, and there were some patches where moss had clearly been removed before the stone made it to a more sterile environment.

Sliscus walked left around the rock. A plaque stated it was somehow important to the cult of Khaine. He saw a derivation of the rune for deity several times on the rock, or perhaps daemon. Sliscus had circled the stone once. He paused. His clone field had reliably picked out eyes so far, but it was about to get a little confusing. Steeling himself, he began circling around the stone again. From his side, the image looked normal, but so did everything else.

After the third time around the stone, a door came into view, as the Crone had said. Sliscus set his field down gently, and pulled out a skeleton key. Mechanically speaking, it was nothing like a key, but served the same function. The light buzzing noise it made scared Sliscus momentarily, but his fervent glances towards guards assured him that they couldn't hear it. The door clicked, and Sliscus passed through silently.

He could feel leaving the gallery almost instantly. The cold from the room was like a wall. The Eldar use a twisting labyrinth between universes to travel quickly from one point to another. The Dark Eldar lived in that maze, known as the Webway. The room was obviously nothing like the one he'd just left, nor anywhere near. A slowly decaying wooden structure surrounded him, with rays of light catching hanging dust. Sliscus looked cautiously between some of the gaps in the wall. His eyes adjusted to the harsh light, revealing a desert with sparse shrubs. His breath was dislodging dust from the wall, so he moved back.

About the room was scattered an odd assortment of trinkets. Unlike the gallery, these were all small, and extremely ancient. A dagger or pistol were prominently displayed, but none were particularly valuable. Nothing here was, unless you wanted a unique instance of something both common rather old. A small leather book sat on a wooden barrel unceremoniously. It was marginally less dusty than everything else.

He placed the book inside a personally crafted bag. It theoretically muted any tracking signal the book may attempt to send once he went through back through the door. He briefly considered finding out the location of the shack while he was there, but there was little else of importance and this door may close, leaving him trapped on an unfamiliar world.

Sliscus took a snapshot of the room and its contents, for perusal later. He left, gently closing the portal.

* * *

The journey back to his quarters was harrowing. Sliscus lived in Aenith's citadel in Port Carmine, a bustling area rife with patrols searching for threats to their Lord. The watchful eyes of the Incubi laid sentry to the doors of the citadel which overlooked a market. THE Market. There was no day or night in Commorragh, only an eternal dusk. Here, goods and slaves were exchanged until one or the other ran out, whoever has nothing for them there leaves, and a new seller sets up shop. The apparent lawlessness of the Market wasn't the only thing contributing to its popularity.

The Webway was a vast network of limbs and branches, at the heart of which was a rotten canker that was Commorragh. In its distant past, Commorragh had been a trade centre for the Eldar Empire. It was apart from the various nepotistic factions of the Empire, and given much leeway and autonomy due to its economic power. This, combined with the Eldar predilection towards excess, was the primary cause of the Empire's downfall. Ironically, those most debauched survived and failed entirely to seek repentance.

Commorragh partly stayed in its role of trading hub, but took up raiding and pillaging to survive and even prosper after the cataclysm. The 'furthest' reaches of the webway stretched far beyond the Eldar Empire, set up by greedy moguls surreptitiously stealing entire planets of resources. These portals, hidden on planets or in deep space, enabled Commorragh to prey on isolated human and alien settlements. Despite this, Commorragh still brought in vast amounts of trade from worlds that relied on it to support their corpulent populations.

Port Carmine lay at the entrance to one of the largest arteries into Commorragh. Much of Commorragh is an open space in the webway, flowing and weaving in impossible ways. Each little realm is controlled by a Lord to the best of their abilities, periodically being swallowed or destroyed by one another in games of gall, wit, and chance. Each citadel was designed with their commissioner's own ideas, to entertain guests or confuse enemies, without heed to whether something could actually fit there.

The rulers of Port Carmine were collectively the wealthiest demographic in Commorragh, though all of their objectives included at least the destruction of their competitors. The amount of trade that flowed through the port was staggering, and the Lords had grown fat from taxes and piracy. There was nothing too sybaritic or illegal. Indeed, law was nonexistent. If a Lord felt the need to sell on their own raucous market, they'd hose down an occupied space with automatic weapons fire and set up shop.

Death and corpses were a fact of life in Commorragh. The teeming throngs of aliens stepped hurriedly over bodies, occasionally tripping or being trampled. Eventually, someone would drag them away. Even corpses had uses, and everyone was on the lookout for anything free.

The smell of millions of unwashed slaves waiting for their turn to be sold was incredible. This had been Sliscus' playground. Growing up involved a lot of avoiding being squashed between large sweaty bodies, or pompous traders being carried by groups of underlings. He didn't want to draw attention to himself. Fortunately leaving with dangerous items was significantly less threatening than attempting to enter.

His quarters were located beyond the market, though relatively close. They were built into some of the buttresses of the walls surrounding the courtyard. The door slid open as he approached. Any onlookers knew better than to try and enter. As he crossed the threshold, he took a deep breath of the fresh air. The door slid shut, baffling the noise.

The cool air washed over him, and he became rather aware of how fast his heart was beating. He removed his outermost layers of clothing and ascended a thin winding staircase. It was an irony that one of Aenith's biggest threats came from his walls, a structure entirely associated with defence and control. Of course, using the space within the walls as quarters for his most powerful lackeys created structural weaknesses anyway, but these walls hadn't been attacked in decades.

Sliscus had his own slaves, but few. Though he was relatively high up in Commorragh society, he occupied one of the bottom rungs of "well-off". He pulled a human female out of her cage. Her name was Anaya. All the other slaves pulled back from the light as the cage opened, fearing. The fact that she did not meant she was basically worthless.

Slaves were a form of currency within Commorragh, but it wasn't close to standardised. It may cost ten slaves in one part of Commorragh to buy a Splinter Rifle, where in another part ten may be bought for one slave. But even within the same area, a slave was useful for many different reasons. Perhaps the most esoteric was as a form of sustenance.

The Dark Eldar require the suffering of others. They wallow in it, and it invigorates them. As hundreds around them keen in agony, a Dark Eldar's wrinkles fade and their skin glows. Every sensation heightens while their surroundings slow down, allowing them to move faster and more gracefully than humanly possible. This was a significant advantage in a battle, which had mental and physical anguish in an almost palpable haze. In the context of a massacre in a city, the Dark Eldar are like gods of battle confident of their own superiority.

Their need is also a weakness, and it affects their society at almost every level. Without suffering, Dark Eldar age preturnaturally quickly, more so in real space. The idea that all of their peers can bleed almost pure bliss means that trust simply isn't a concept they can truly understand. Thus their entire society is ultimately self-destructive, though they would most likely be the last large population of the Eldar to die off.

But shoving a knife into one person's gut is not the same as another. A man who has been kicked and beaten his entire life and known nothing but servitude will barely feel the knife. He may even feel relief at his sudden release of life. Such a sensation is worthless to a Dark Eldar. Those from idyllic paradises, the rich, the hedonistic and those that have been coddled have so much more to lose, and their pain makes a much satisfying meal for a Dark Eldar. The shock that the universe can deliver such pain is also nourishing. This means that after a while, a slave's value as sustenance will decay quickly.

Anaya stared, her expression blank. She followed Sliscus, her arm held limply by his hand. He led her to a room with a marble bath sunk into the otherwise flat floor. His grip tightened, and he shoved her in.

"Fill the bath. Surprise me, but easy on the salts. I need to concentrate."

Her movements were lethargic, dulled by helplessness. He looked on, smirking slightly when she didn't even motion towards anything that might be considered rebellious. She was entirely too hairy for his own tastes, but most humans were like that. Of course, there was no accounting for tastes, but his were more discriminating than most. He pulled the book out and opened it. It was surprisingly thin.

He placed his thumb against the edge of the pages and pushed to open it. His thumb moved slightly, but the page didn't bend. A sharp sting shot from his thumb and he jerked his hand back. A stream of blood flowed down his arm. He sighed. Water sloshed rhythmically in the bath, and Anaya added various oils and unguents until the air in the room built into a relieving musk. He noticed a drop of blood on the page. As the air became thicker, the rest of the page became wet, and the drop flattened, spreading into the microscopic rivulets apparently sunk into the page.

Pressing his index finger against the whiter parts of the page made it stick. As his finger came back, the page came with it. It was almost invisible head on, and the blood had run through the page. The page itself didn't bend though. Apparently, it had been made of an extremely strong substance, a hyper-advanced plastic or wraithbone. Given the text that was appearing was of Craftworld origin, a rimwards dialect if Sliscus wasn't mistaken, the latter was most likely.

Wraithbone was a psychically active material found on the Eldar homeworlds. Given the current location of those homeworlds, mining it was extremely dangerous, although not at all length. It could only be sheared or warped under extreme stress, but could easily be moulded with even rudimentary psychic ability. This particular page, and all the other in the book, was likely only tens of atoms thick.

He turned back to the first page, and wracked his brains. His mother had taught him much of their language, but it had been so long since he'd been to a Craftworld, and he didn't read much while he was there. Perhaps hot water would clear his mind. He held the book gingerly above his head as he waded in. He did have plenty more blood available to make this book legible, but it wasn't limitless. Small drops from his arm flowered as they hit the water.

It would take a while, reading, although he hoped he'd get faster as he got more used to the language. Anaya stepped into the bath with a scour and began cleaning a layer of grime off Sliscus' body. Getting to his hands, the scour nicked the cut made by the page. The wound opened a little bit more, releasing a dark red cloud that faded to a yellowed pink. She didn't appear to care. Neither did he.


End file.
